Ghost of You
by Misile
Summary: Greg-well, he has these nightmares. And sometimes- sometimes they come true. No slash. Friendship piece. Possible spoilers for ‘Spellbound.’ Remember that sixth sense Greg was talking about? Also! Casefile! I never thought I’d write one of those.
1. Sleep

Title: Ghost of You

Summary: Greg-well, he has these nightmares. And sometimes- sometimes they come true. No slash. Friendship piece. Possible spoilers for 'Spellbound.' Remember that sixth sense Greg was talking about? Also! Casefile! I never thought I'd write one of _those._

_By:Misile_

_A/N: I had so much fun writing this, when I wasn't freaking out about how badly I was doing. The idea came to me after a huge CSI splurge, involving DVDs and Max Collin's books, and also a weird dream in which Warrick was hit by a train at a party at one of my old houses while the rest of the CSIs where inside slow dancing to the Academy Is… by the light of paper lanterns. WEIRD. Maybe I'll write that up as a story. I hope you all have as much fun reading this as I did writing it, and I would love reviews from you all! No pressure. I always used to get confused about reviewing, because people would say 'Push the purple button!' and I could FIND NO PURPLE BUTTON! Maybe something's funky with my computer screen, because my review button is grey and blue. Feel free to push the blue-grey button! Thanks for reading, all! D_

Chapter One: Sleep

This was not what Grissom had been expecting from sharing a hotel room with the infamously unpredictable Greg Sanders. He'd been expecting something along the lines of nude models delivering Greg's room service and a constant barrage of awful music until Grissom threatened to either fire Greg as a roommate and CSI or destroy every sound-producing device in the hotel. Short of any of these events, he at least expected an argument when it came time to turn off the lights. What Grissom hadn't seen coming was Greg immediately sprawling onto his chosen bed, lanky limbs dangling over the edge of the twin mattress, flipping through a well-read copy of an Edgar Allen Poe collection. His iPod buds were secured firmly in his ears providing a heavy dosage of music Grissom couldn't hear from his side of the room, but was undoubtedly destroying Greg's hearing as he watched.

Not that Grissom was spending his down time watching Greg read from across the room, After the initial shock of seeing Greg still and quiet, Grissom had- quite productively, if he could say so himself- re-read the case file. It seemed that it started as a domestic disturbance- the wife had cut the husbands cable, the husband returned the favour, and in retaliation, the wife had nailed all of the doors to the house shut while her husband was outside. The husband had gone to the neighbour's to use the phone, and found the door open and the neighbour dead on the kitchen floor. COD was a gunshot wound to the head. The neighbours had been eliminated as suspects-they had hardly known the victim, a Brian Caris- but Grissom and his team, consisting of Greg, Nick, and Catherine, had opted to stay overnight in the town, since the crime scene was over an hour and a half away from the lab.

After going over the case, Grissom had indulged in some Forensic Journals that he had brought along. One article on entomology in particular caught his attention, so much so that he failed to notice the late hour entirely.

There was no protest on Greg's part when Grissom flipped out the lights, because he had already fallen asleep, face hidden under one spindly arm splayed dramatically across his eyes, book abandoned beside his splayed palm. He hadn't even bothered to get under the covers before closing his eyes. It took only seconds after 'lights out' for Grissom to fall to sleep's welcome embrace.

Though Grissom could have slept for days, the universe, it seemed, had other plans. He woke at a little after two in the morning, his internal clock screaming that now was the time for work, while his mind insisted that this investigation was going to take place in the revealing light of day. Grissom lay quietly, ever hopeful that his mind would win the battle. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, listening to the near-silence of the hotel room.

When Greg first started talking, Grissom thought that he was hearing a muffled argument coming from another room; hotel walls were notoriously thin. It took the confused CSI a few moments to understand that the voice was Greg, muttering into his pillow while he slept. Grissom listened, and found that he could only make out every few words, not because the speech was slurred with sleep and smothered by a mouthful of pillow, but because most of it was in another language. Grissom realized with a start that it must be Norwegian, and wondered why Greg of all people would have dreams in another language.

Greg sounded angry now, and though he didn't understand the words, Grissom recognized the tone- angry and fearful. Greg's comatose babblings never became full sentences in any language, so Grissom couldn't decipher what, exactly, was going on in the younger man's head. Not that he wanted to know; though it was tempting, Grissom felt slightly uncomfortable invading his CSI's dream talk in case something came up that would embarrass Greg. Trying to close his ears to Greg's voice, which seemed ironic seeing all he went through to keep his hearing, Grissom rolled over, his back to Greg.

And it worked, mostly. He managed to block out the sound almost entirely, counting in his head, until he heard Greg utter a strangled "Stop!"

_Aaand… SCENE._

_A/N: That was a really terrible chapter ending, and I'm sorry, but I really couldn't think of a better place to end it. Reviews would be appreciated, and thanks for reading! Apologies for the short chapter._


	2. Nightmare

Title: Ghost Of You

By: Misile

Disclaimer: While I'm flattered that anyone would think I own the rights to CSI and its characters… I don't. I wish I did, but no. I don't even own the title-that's a My Chemical Romance song. I don't own them, either. I'm pretty sure they own themselves. Ghost Of You is, however, a wicked song, so check it out. Be warned, though- the music video's a tearjerker. :(

_A/N: Chapter 2 is the Chapter That Almost Wasn't. It's quite horrible. Really. I fell asleep and the notebook with this story in it was on my bed; when I woke up, it wasn't. Panic set in. I feared that my mother, in one of her cleaning splurges, may have thrown out my notebook, since she's been throwing out a lot of things lately in case we move. (Interesting fact: The amount of stuff thrown out after three moves is the equivalent of what is lost in one house fire.) Then, paranoia hit and I worried that maybe my notebook had been boarded up under our new loft flooring. The horror! It was like the Tell Tale Heart. All my hard work, trapped under the floor. I nearly died. Then, hurrah! I found the notebook in my tote bag, under my bed. Huh. So that's my excuse for posting late. The neighbours last chapter were based on my grandparents. True story. Greg should have Jack Skellington slippers. My opinion. Thank you thank you thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! I hardly expected any. Now I'm horrified that you're all going to be disappointed by this chapter. :O __Mma63__, I was listening to a commentary on the CSI DVDs and they mentioned Greg and Grissom sharing a room, so there's my reference, if that helps. _

Chapter Two: Nightmare

"Greg? What did you say you were doing?" Grissom asked, watching quizzically as his youngest CSI tugged on his well-worn pair of Converse All-Stars. Greg had looked surprised to see Grissom awake, but chose to ignore him as he dressed. He had pulled a hoodie on over his too-large pajama shirt, not bothering to change out of the open-ankle sweat pants he'd worn to bed. Greg hadn't specifically told Grissom what he was planning on doing, had simply muttered something unintelligible as he stumbled out of bed and switched on the light.

"I'm going on a walk. Can't sleep." His back was to Grissom as he stood, but that didn't stop the entomologist from seeing he light sheen of sweat on Greg's forehead. "I'm so nocturnal now. I can't sleep at night." He offered a half-hearted smile. "Don't worry- I'll be back. Can't just abandon the case, right?" And then he was gone, out the door before Grissom could utter so much as a word of protest. A brief flash of worry that Greg would be exhausted at the scene tomorrow made Grissom feel slightly hypocritical, so he went to turn out the light, stubbing his toe on the way, and fell back into bed.

He found that sleep came no more easily with Greg out of the room.

Greg wasn't in the room when Grissom woke up, after catching only a few hours' sleep, but his things had been cleared off the bed. After a moment of indecisiveness, Grissom chose not to call Greg and find out his whereabouts. He figured that Greg would just turn up at the crime scene and, if not, then he would call.

The small, brick house was still roped off with yellow tape when Grissom arrived, though all of the curious neighbours and onlookers had long since dispersed, all of their morbid curiosity dying after the sun had risen. Since the scene was nearly two hours away from the lab, Grissom had opted to stay the night and process the scene in the revealing light of day. Catherine offered to transport evidence back to the lab, and the local PD had graciously offered to lend the Vegas CSIs use of their interrogation rooms.

When he pulled up to the scene, Grissom was unsurprised to find Catherine and Nick's vehicles already parked in front of the scene. He had been slow in leaving the hotel, still groggy from lack of sleep. Catherine waved from her position on the front lawn; examining what was probably a flower bed- the victim had apparently lacked any sort of green in his thumb- for any footprints. Since her starch and setting materials were unused beside her, Grissom doubted she was having any luck.

"Greg and Nick are inside." She offered by way of greeting. Grissom nodded in acknowledgment and made his way inside where, as promised, Nick and Greg were processing.

The coroner had already carted the body away, leaving a small pool of drying blood on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Nick was hunched over the dining room table, dusting it for prints, while Greg lay sprawled on his stomach on the living room floor, waving his flashlight around under the couch.

"Hey, Griss." Nick said, not looking up from his work. "I've got the kitchen and Greg's processing the living room. Your pick of bedroom or bathroom." The house was a cozy, one-story affair, sparsely decorated as is the way with divorced bachelors. The front door led the a kitchen the doubled as a dining room, with an open wall to the living room. A short hallway led the bedroom and bathroom.

"The bedroom." Grissom claimed, immediately after walking to the back of the house and eyeing the unhygienic bathroom with obvious distaste. The bedroom turned out to be little better; rumpled sheets were falling off the mattress in a heap, dirty clothes were strewn haphazardly across the carpet, and there was a layer of dust so think Grissom had at first mistaken it for paint. Though tempted to alert HazMat to the possible health danger, Grissom say it as his solemn duty to process the dangerously unclean room. Quashing an urge to organize the mess, Grissom stepped tentatively around piles of clothing, trying not to disturb anything. Whipping out his trusty ALS and putting on the orange-tinted glasses, he swept the light across the mussed bedding, and wasn't sure whether or not he should be surprised when they lit up.

The victim had been divorced, living alone here after moving out of the home he and his ex-wife had shared for the entirety of their marriage. No one had made any mention of a girlfriend, but Grissom wouldn't have been surprised is no one had known about her. The fighting neighbours had made it clear that they hadn't been very close to the vic, only speaking with him occasionally, such as when one spouse locked the other out. It was clear, to Grissom, at least, that if Brian Caris had a girlfriend, these neighbours wouldn't have been the ones to know.

It also became apparent, as Grissom continued sifting through the pieces of Brian Caris' life, that he hadn't had many friends. There was no evidence of a social life besides the sheets; ne messages on the phone, no photographs, nothing. After bagging a swab from the sheets, Grissom finished photographing the room and headed back to the living area to help finish processing that room, then use his powers of seniority to pass the laborious task of collecting evidence from the bathroom onto Nick or Greg.

"What'd you see?" Nick's harsh whisper was concerned, and as soon as Grissom came into the room he could see the worry in his face as he focused on Greg. Greg's eyes were too big for his suddenly pale face, looking at Nick but not really seeing him. Nick had one hand on Greg's shoulder, as if anchoring him to reality.

Grissom announced his entrance with a cough, and Nick immediately dropped his hand. The younger CSIs quickly stepped away from each other, and Grissom couldn't help but feel that he was walking in on a secret.

"Am I interrupting something?" He questioned, setting his kit down on the kitchen table after making sure the prints had already been lifted. Nick's face tinted pink, while Greg regained his composure, though his eyes remained wide and haunted. Obviously somewhat embarrassed that Grissom had caught them in an expression of human emotion, both CSIs returned to their previous tasks.

Nick was examining the blood poll for any evidence caught in the coagulated red substance, or for any droplets leading away from the mess of blood and tissue. He seemed to be having some luck, pulling a short blonde hair from the pool with his tweezers. Greg had moved from processing th underbelly of the couch to fingerprinting the door handle.

"Greg, when you're done with that, I want you to get to work in the bathroom."

Apparently recovered from the brief episode Nick had been worrying over, Greg quirked an eyebrow, obviously finding some humour in the request.

"Greg…" Grissom cautioned.

Greg groaned in protest. "Come on, Gris! Have you seen that room? It's not safe for carbon-based life forms!"

"That may be, but I'm your supervisor and it's my right to assign you to the bathroom."

Greg, admitting defeat, rolled his eyes and finished taping the prints and loading them into his kit before walking past Grissom in a huff on his way to the Nasty Bathroom From Hell.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, Griss?" Nick replied from his place on the kitchen floor.

"What was that, with Greg?" If the question made Nick uncomfortable, he didn't show it.

"Oh. He felt a little lightheaded, thought he might be sick. I'm sure it's nothing- probably just not enough sleep last night. You see the bags under his eyes?" Grissom had seen them, dark sleeping bruises that circled under Greg's tired eyes. He wondered if Greg had gotten any sleep after leaving the hotel last night. Accepting Nick's explanation, despite the fact that it didn't explain Nick asking Greg what he'd seen, Grissom dropped the subject. For now.

After a few moments of silence, broken only by a few complaints from the bathroom about the stench, Nick straightened, stretching. "Alright, Grissom. I think I've got all I can from this- I'm gonna take this out to Catherine's car, then head back to the hotel and go over we've got on this guy. Maybe I'll try to find out about the ex-wife."

Grissom nodded absently, continuing to focus on whatever evidence he could find. Noting his dismissal, Nick took his kit and left Grissom and Greg alone in the crime scene. Greg's voice had stopped calling from the bathroom, and the house was left eerily silent.

Processing the living room took little effort on Grissom's part; Greg had done a surprisingly thorough job. _No, not surprisingly,_ Grissom reminded himself,_ Greg's becoming an excellent CSI. _After organizing the evidence bags to fit into his kit, and feeling guilty (if only slightly) about condemning Greg to the hideous bachelor bathroom, he rose, deciding to offer what help he could before taking his evidence to Catherine.

"Greg?" He called, walking down the hall. No answer. Thinking that Greg was giving him the cold shoulder in revenge for having to process the bathroom, Grissom sighed at the immaturity of it all. "Greg, I'm…" he greeted as he opened the door.

And stopped.

Greg wasn't collecting evidence. Greg wasn't doing much of anything, really, except breathing, ragged, gasping breaths as if he couldn't pull enough oxygen into his lungs. He was leaning shakily against the counter, white knuckled hands gripping the edge as if it were the only thing standing. Looking at the state of the younger CSI, Grissom realized that it probably was. His lips moved silently, rapidly mouthing words even Grissom couldn't read. His eyes, wide and panicked, stared through Grissom and into a world that only Greg could see.

_-fin-_

_A/N- Dang, these seem so much longer in my notebook. For some reason, I started writing in cursive in the middle of this chapter, and my cursive writing is surprisingly good, since this is the first time I've voluntarily written like that in years. Only problem is when I get lazy, I start writing unintelligible squiggles instead of actual words. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I'm sorry if it disappoints. Maybe I'll revise it someday, but right now all I want to do is get the story in my head onto paper before I forget it. Since I have such problems focusing, I usually can't finish even a chapter of a story, but I got a new notebook made specifically for my fanfics, and on the advice of a friend, I wrote a note to myself in the beginning reminding myself that I'm only allowed to start a new story once I've finished the first. Now I'm worried I'm going to try and wrap this one up too fast, so I can start on one of the other Ideas I've got flying around._


	3. Future

Title: Ghost Of You

Title: Ghost Of You

By: Misile

A/N: I'm sorry, oh so sorry, about the lateness of this posting. I've actually had the chapter written for a while now, but never found the time to type it. First it just seemed to long to type, then I was babysitting with my cousin overnight and even with two of us those kids wore us out and I got sick. I spent most of my sickness working on this story, so I'm up to chapter five and halfway through chapter six now, with a bit of revising to do here and there but otherwise, it's good. Life got in the way of posting as well- my best friend is visiting and such. My sincerest apologies. Maybe I'll post two chapters next post to make up for the lateness of this one. These chapters look a lot longer in my notebook. I'm all proud of myself for writing such long chapters, and then it's only like, a page on word.

-Sigh-

Chapter Three: Future

_You can hear the blood pulsing in your ears, your breath loud in the muffled silence of this waking dream. The world is blurry, smudged like a watercolour with too much water, but slowly coming into focus. It that house, the same house he's been processing for hours now, and with a start he realizes he's looking at the living room, bare walls awash with the fading pastel hues of sunset. There's a man- the victim, alive, no gaping bullet wound torn through the flesh and bone of his content face. He turns away from the sink, a cup of steaming liquid held tentatively in both hands; sets it down on the small table before returning to the sink, digging around in a drawer for silverware. The second figure, huddled near-invisible in the greying shadows of dusk- sees this as his chance, and steps forward, his feet making no sound on the thick living room carpet. The first man-Brian- must have felt his presence, though, because he swings around, and after he does recognition flashes across his face. His shoulders relax, and you want to scream to run, warn him, anything, but you know that you have no effect on this reality, that you're nothing more then an observer. The relief in his eyes disappears the moment the gun is drawn. _

Greg?

_The rest happens quickly, a blur of motion and harsh words. The dark man, gripping the gun, is aiming it towards Brian's skull, spitting angry words that you struggle to understand through the anger and hate that distort his voice. You can hardly bear to look at Brian's face, a mess of panic and pleading as he protests whatever the taller man is accusing. Whatever he says, it doesn't work because suddenly there's an explosion of fire and smoke and you really do turn away, because watching the event leading up to Brain Caris' death is one thing; watching him die, his blood and brain and bones decorating his kitchen, is another matter entirely. You can look away, because you saw his face, twisted in malice and victory._

"Greg!"

He blinked, and suddenly it wasn't the face of a killer he was looking at, but Grissom's concerned eyes. Greg was about to ask his boss how on earth he of all people ended up in this vision before he realized that he wasn't in his own head anymore. This was reality, and Grissom was still staring at him, searching his face for some sort of information about the episode Greg had. His mouth was moving, but Greg's hearing took a moment to catch up with the rest of him.

"Greg? Greg, are you alright?" Grissom's face was etched with a mixture of worry and question. The younger CSI blinked owlishly, looking pale and shaken; the bruising under his eyes even more pronounced then before, wide doe-eyes finally focusing on Grissom rather then whatever else it was he'd just been seeing.

"Oh, hey Grissom." He smiled crookedly, a half-hearted attempt at alleviating the uncomfortable emotion of the moment. "You've come to help me process this dump?"

"Greg, what just happened?"

No answer. Greg started dusting the countertop, ignoring Grissom by pretending to be focused on the task at hand.

"Was it what happened earlier? With Nick?"

A shrug.

"Would Nick know what just happened?" Grissom already knew the answer.

Greg's shoulder's tensed, because he was starting to realize that maybe Grissom wasn't going to let this go, because he's Grissom, and he's the kind of person that isn't satisfied until he knows absolutely everything.

"Later," he muttered softly, not quite comfortable with the idea of spilling one of his darkest secrets to Grissom in the dead man's filthy bathroom, and even less comfortable with being trapped in the room with Grissom until they finished collecting, undoubtedly uncomfortable, Greg's secret hanging in the air.

"Back at the hotel?"

"…Maybe." The logical part of his mind was telling him to shut up, that though Grissom may have visited a psychic and may be more open-minded then some, telling the truth was not an option here. It was frantically thinking of excuses and lies, but none seemed sufficient enough to keep Grissom at bay. The only acceptable cover story was panic attack, but what kind of CSI has two anxiety attacks on the job, and in one day, no less. As much as he didn't like the idea of giving in and telling Grissom about the most private part of his being, didn't want Grissom to think of him as a raving loon, Greg was slowly becoming resigned to the fact that there might not be a way out of this. A part of him even wanted to tell, get the weight off of his shoulders, let someone other then Nick into his mind. For a second, it didn't seem like such a bad idea.

They finished the bathroom in an uncomfortable silence, Grissom occasionally sending fleeting glances Greg's way, which Greg's tried to ignore, until Greg stood, his back stiff, and announced that he was taking the evidence to Catherine.

"It's nearly a two-hour drive to the lab." He pointed out. "If we give her the evidence now, we can start interviewing while she's gone."

Grissom nodded, handing his evidence off to Greg, who hurried out of the room with a look of what Grissom would have to call relief.

"Hey, Cath!" Greg ginned as he walked up to her, carrying an armload of evidence to be towed back to the lab. Nick's truck was gone, and Greg could only wonder where he'd gone after leaving his evidence with Catherine.

"Hey, Greggo." She glanced up from where she was arranging evidence and tools in the back of her SUV, smiling. "Need some help there?"

"Please." He smiled pleadingly, holding out some of the evidence bags. Catherine obliged, taking some of the overflow off of his hands and placing it carefully in the trunk.

"Thanks. Are you heading back to the lab, soon? I think we're going to do interviews while you're gone."

Catherine nodded. "Just finished up processing the outside. I got a few shoeprints, nothing much. What about suspect swabs? When I get this to the lab, they'll need something to compare it too…"

Greg shrugged. "Right now, we're severely lacking in the suspect zone. Hopefully we'll have something to give you by the time we get back."

Catherine was already climbing into the front seat, shooing Greg away. "Go, go, help Grissom save the world and catch me some bad guys."

"So, who are we interviewing first?" Greg asked, watching out the window as Grissom drove towards the local police station.

"The only person we know of is his ex-wife. The local PD brought her in about half an hour ago. Nick, " Grissom emphasized the name with a pointed look at Greg, " has already offered to do the interviewing, and collect DNA and fingerprint samples. There's nothing more you or I can do right now, at least until we've got another suspect to interviews."

Greg had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly where this conversation was going.

_-Fin-_

_A/N: I wrote this chapter at 3:30 AM and revised it the next day. That is dedication. Watch Zodiac or Day After Tomorrow or really anything with Jake Gyllenhaal in it while you await my next chapter. I think I might go watch one of those right now. Or Sixth Sense or Edward Scissorhands._


	4. Truth

Title: Ghost Of You

* * *

Title: Ghost Of You

* * *

By: Misile

A/N: My sincerest apologies for the incredibly late hour of this posting. I've been detained at camp for the past two weeks, and found it difficult to obtain internet access for the duration of my stay there. It was, however, two of the best weeks of my summer. I met people from Spain, France, New Zealand, Australia, Wales, and even my friend from South Africa returned. I completely got over my fear of riding (horses) and same home to finish up most of the story. I even have a sequel in mind featuring Greg's brother. I would like to hear everyone's opinions on this as it will depend on that how this particular story ends. 

CHAPTER FOUR: TRUTH

Brian Caris' ex-wife Elizabeth was by no means an unattractive woman, but her fine, petite features were marred by the delicious cruelty in her expression, making her all the less desirable. Meticulously painted lips were pursed in annoyance as she gazed at Nick, her piercing grey eyes cold. Her small nose was turned up in arrogance, finely groomed eyebrows arched as if shocked that she, of all people, would be here, of all places. It was scandalous! Tapping her freshly manicured fingers against the chipped finish of the interrogation room table, she rolled her eyes far enough back into her head that Nick though she had fainted, possibly finding it too demeaning to be here.

"Why have you brought me here?" She purred coolly, spitting out the word 'here' like it was something rotten in her salad. "Should I be demanding a lawyer, or something?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your husband was found dead late last night." Nick began. "I'm sorry we couldn't reach you sooner, but…"

"Ex-husband, you mean." Elizabeth spit, interrupting him. Cracking her gum obnoxiously, she continued, "So what, am I a suspect or something?"

Nick was slightly taken aback by the woman nonchalant attitude towards the death of a loved one, or one she must have loved once, at least, if she had agreed to share the rest of her life with him, in sickness and in health. "Ma'am, right now we're just following protocol. We're going to need a sample of your DNA and fingerprints to help rule you out as a suspect."

"Don't you need a... a warrant or something, for that kind of stuff? Am I going to need a lawyer?" She questioned suspiciously, a hint of nervousness starting to show through her emotionless façade.

"You'll only need a lawyer if you did it." He cocked an eyebrow.

"Which I _didn't,_" She hissed.

"And we'll only need a warrant if you refuse to give us the samples."

"Fine," She huffed. "The DNA isn't going to hurt, is it? I hate needles."

"Not a bit."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Just say 'Ahh…"

After collecting the samples with considerably less hassle then he would have expected form the woman, and enduring her complaints that the fingerprinting ink would get under her recent manicure and stain, Nick thanked Elizabeth and rose to leave, assuring her that she was free to go and they would call with any updates, if she liked.

"If you want a suspect, you should question that whore he's been sleeping with."

Nick paused, turned. "Do you have a name?"

"Aubrie Willis." She smirked wickedly. "His _boss_."

* * *

Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nervous gaze flitting about the room, looking at anything but Grissom's infuriatingly calm face. They were in the small room that had been lent to the Vegas CSIs as a makeshift office of sorts- the hotel was nowhere near secure enough. Grissom was sitting behind the old oak desk that took up nearly a fifth of the small room, with Greg seated across from him, shifting in the seat and obviously anxious to escape the situation. (Greg was almost positive that his seat was shorter then Grissom's, in an unfair effort to make him feel small.)

"Greg?" He glanced up at the barely-hidden concern in Grissom's voice, still avoiding the older man's leveled gaze; instead he focused on the skin between Grissom's eyebrows.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about, back at the scene?"

_No, _Greg thought.

"You're a scientist, Grissom." He said instead. Grissom looked a bit taken aback by the statement, unsure as to how it pertained to the conversation at hand.

"And?"

"And I'm afraid that you're going to think I'm crazy, or lying, even though I'm not, because none of what I would say is supported by science. In fact, it kind of goes against most scientific laws, which makes it kind of difficult to believe in both, even though I do, and even if you have seen a psychic." Greg babbled, looking down at his hands, fiddling nervously in his lap.

Grissom managed to hide he reaction behind a mask of indifference, though his creased forehead was a sure sign of confusion, or concern for Greg's sanity. Or maybe even both.

"Do you remember when I told you about my Nana?"

Grissom vaguely recalled Greg mentioning something about his Norwegian grandmother giving psychic readings in her kitchen, and him possibly having inherited…

_Ah._

Realization dawned on his face, and he looked over to Greg for a confirmation of what he had just concluded. Greg must have seen the look on his face, because he nodded, biting his lower lip self-consciously.

"Grissom, sometimes I have these nightmares. And sometimes… umm … sometimes they come true."

FIN.

I put a lot of consideration into the characters names (okay, so maybe I name some of them- the bad guys- after people that I didn't like back in public school.), but I can't help but feel slightly off about Elizabeth's name. See, I picture her as the woman who played the evil blonde lady who was dating the dad in the newer Parent Trap movie, you know- the one who hated lizards and basically all of nature in general. I'm pretty sure she's had appearances in CSI: Miami and CSI as well, though I could be wrong. But I can't help but worry that she's played someone named Elizabeth- Liz?- before. ARGH! And now it's driving me nuts, because I feel so unoriginal and… unclean. Reviews are much appreciated. Thankies!

P.S. I'M GOING TO WARPED TOUR! ASDFGHJKL; !!


End file.
